


fire sparkling in lovers' eyes

by violaceum_vitellina_viridis



Series: fire & powder [7]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Relationships, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Exhibitionism, First Time, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Marking, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Ruthlessly Cherry-Picked Canon, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Voyeurism, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion, blowjob, mild scent kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23934499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violaceum_vitellina_viridis/pseuds/violaceum_vitellina_viridis
Summary: “What’re you thinking about?”Geralt turns his head to look at Jaskier. There’s a small, indulgent smile on his lips that Jaskier wants to taste. “You,” he says.Geralt and Jaskier spend a morning and afternoon in bed.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: fire & powder [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698274
Comments: 126
Kudos: 1052
Collections: Ashes' Library, Polyamorous Relationships For the Win





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> well. yeah. here's more porn.
> 
> i guess what i'm gonna do is write the porn with each of the three brothers, and then maybe something cute and platonic with vesemir, and _then_ letho? apparently my brain doesn't want to leave kaer morhen just yet.
> 
> the timeline is pretty flexible, but there is a slight mention of jaskier and lambert's sword lessons in here, so it ostensibly takes place while that's happening but before jaskier and lambert go at it? i think? idk for sure. it's not actually that important.
> 
> enjoy!!!

Jaskier wakes with Geralt’s arms wrapped around his shoulders and draped over his waist, respectively.

It’s not an unusual way for him to wake, not since they arrived at Kaer Morhen and decided to share a room and bed for the winter. But it still makes his heart race a little, makes his face flush a little bit. Almost as if he’s a schoolboy with his first crush. It’s almost embarrassing.

But it’s hard to find space within himself to be embarrassed, or to feel anything aside from love and content, really, when Geralt murmurs in his sleep and pulls Jaskier just that little bit closer to his body.

Jaskier bites down on a giggle, the content swelling into giddiness. Geralt murmurs again and rubs his face against Jaskier’s neck.

“Mmmearly,” he grumbles. Jaskier can’t swallow down the giggle this time, and it’s overly loud in the silent morning. Geralt just makes a mildly annoyed noise and nuzzles closer into his neck again. “Wh’sit?” he asks.

“Nothing.” Despite his words, the giggling tries to swell into proper laughter, and he turns his face to bury it in the crook of Geralt’s elbow, hoping to smother the odd, excited feeling in his chest. “It’s nothing.”

Geralt groans a little and shifts, so he’s propped up on the elbow still under Jaskier’s head. He leans over until he can see where Jaskier is peeking up at him. “Nothing, hm?”

He’s teasing. Jaskier lets slip another little chuckle and Geralt smiles. He drops back to the bed and pulls Jaskier close to his chest, pressing that grin against the nape of Jaskier’s neck as he loses his composure and starts to snigger, then laugh, then gasp.

“I’m sor – sorry!” he manages to wheeze between laughs. “I – it’s just – ” Tears are beginning to stream from his eyes, and he brings a hand up to wipe at them, still feeling inexplicably bubbly. Lips still pressed to the nape of his neck, Geralt chuckles.

“Relax, bard,” he murmurs, and surprisingly, Jaskier finds himself doing just that.

It still takes a few moments, but his laughter tapers back into giggling, and then just huffing as he catches his breath. “Sorry,” he mumbles again.

Geralt just squeezes his arm around Jaskier’s middle. “What brought this on?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier says, completely honest. “I just – I’m…happy. Here. With you, and the others.”

“Hm,” Geralt acknowledges. “I’m glad.”

Jaskier squirms around and Geralt holds his arm up to let him move. After several minutes of fruitless wiggling, and then some less doomed squirming, he manages to flip around to face Geralt. The Witcher’s arm drops back around his waist.

“Really,” he insists. “It’s just….”

Geralt shakes his head and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. “I understand,” he murmurs. Jaskier breathes a sigh of relief and turns his head, begging for a proper kiss. Geralt gives it to him easily, willingly.

They kiss for a long time. The light in the room goes from watery gray to the golden hue of mid-morning before either of them consider leaving the bed, and even then, they only consider. At one point, Geralt buries his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck once more, though with more purpose this time. The hickey he leaves there is bound to last for days, maybe even a week, but Jaskier doesn’t mind. He minds even less when Geralt licks across it soothingly and murmurs, “Mine. _Ours_ ,” in a rumbling growl.

“Yes,” he agrees, and Geralt rolls them so he can hover over Jaskier. His eyes are burning, the morning light turning them from yellow-gold to clear amber, and Jaskier wraps a hand around the back of his neck to pull him into another kiss.

This time, Geralt’s hands wander. Calloused fingertips trace from the hollow of his throat, down his chest, to his navel, and back up. Each pass makes Jaskier shiver harder and harder, until finally Geralt takes pity and traces the path with his mouth instead.

“ _Oh_ ,” Jaskier grasps. “Yes, please.”

Geralt gives an amused hum, but doesn’t speak. Instead, he keeps following the lines he’d traced with his fingertips, but with his lips and tongue and _teeth_. Jaskier jolts and whines and wriggles, but each time Geralt goes to sit up, to pull back, he grabs at his head and pulls him back.

It’s too much; it’s not enough; Jaskier just wants _more_. More of everything, of the shocky, almost-pain when Geralt’s teeth curve around his ribs, of the tickling feeling of Geralt’s stubble rasping over his bellybutton, of the possessive way Geralt’s hands grip at his hip and waist.

“Want you,” he mumbles, and Geralt hums an agreement.

“What do you want?”

Jaskier opens his eyes to look at him, struck by the way the light and shadow play over the angles and scars on his face. “Anything,” he murmurs. “Everything. What do _you_ want?”

Geralt blinks, slow and very-cat like. It’s adorable, endearing, and then he licks his lips, and Jaskier’s thoughts tip into more risqué territory than _adorable._

“I want to blow you,” Geralt finally days, and Jaskier’s cock throbs hard enough between them to leave a sticky trace on Geralt’s chest.

“ _Please_ ,” Jaskier whines, carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair. “I fear I won’t last, though.”

Geralt shrugs, a smooth, easy movement, and slithers further down the bed. “I don’t mind,” he murmurs.

He comes eye-level with Jaskier’s cock, and just the sight of it is enough to make him twitch again. Geralt smirks, a small, indulgent thing, and flicks his tongue out to catch the bead of precome at the tip.

Jaskier whimpers. It takes a lot of willpower not to throw his head back, to keep looking, watching Geralt, but it’s worth every ounce to see his White Wolf’s eyes flutter when he wraps his mouth around the head of Jaskier’s prick.

“Oh, oh fuck,” Jaskier pulls his hand away from Geralt’s head, worried he’ll grip too hard or yank, but Geralt catches it and puts it back.

He pulls off of Jaskier’s cock for just a moment to murmur, “It’s fine, you can pull,” before going back down again, taking more in this time.

Even exerting all of his self-control, Jaskier does exactly that: pull. And not gently, either, but instead of reprimand, all he gets is to see Geralt’s eyes roll and feel the way he moans.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier hisses. Geralt’s eyes flick up to meet his, something mischievous in his gaze, and without further ado, he swallows Jaskier’s cock clear to the base.

Jaskier is sure that he blacks out for a moment. He can hear the rushing of his own blood and his voice, cracked and too-high, pleading; his vision is a blur or wild colors, none of which are in front of him right now, he knows.

“ _Geralt,_ ” he keens, and the Witcher pulls back to toy with his foreskin. It’s both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, his impending orgasm recedes, and he’s able to see again. On the other, the sensation is startlingly intense, making his hips and thighs flex as he pulses out even more precome.

Geralt, for his part, just makes a pleased noise and licks it up as if it’s some kind of treat. Jaskier whimpers and thinks that he might not survive this encounter.

What a way to go, though. He can’t say he’s complaining.

It isn’t long before Geralt gets bored of what he’s doing; Jaskier doesn’t get much more warning than a cheeky kiss pressed to his slit before his cock is sliding down the Witcher’s throat again.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Jaskier can’t help the way his hips jerk or the way he pulls at Geralt’s hair. Geralt’s hands come to rest on his hips, but instead of pushing him back, or holding him down, they just relax there, fingers splayed over the protruding bone. Jaskier understands permission when he sees it, and it’s a heady rush that Geralt is giving it.

“Gods,” he gasps, and finds a fumbling rhythm. Geralt hums, and Jaskier bites back an actual scream; his next few thrusts are too hard, too quick, but Geralt just swallows through it before pulling back just enough to breathe properly.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, and Geralt shakes his head.

“One day, I’ll go to my knees,” he says, voice low and rough and – _oh,_ Jaskier did that, didn’t he? “I’ll let you properly fuck my throat.”

Jaskier makes an unintelligible, broken noise at that, and Geralt just smirks before ducking back down and swallowing him again. It’s too much, this time; between Geralt’s words, and the feeling of his throat squeezing tight around Jaskier’s cock, he’s gone.

He tries to warn, to pull Geralt away, but the Witcher refuses. Instead, he makes eye contact with Jaskier and pushes clear to the base, swallowing one last time before Jaskier loses all of his faculties and can hear nor see anything at all for a long, long time.

Geralt is pressed against his side when he comes to, still hard. Jaskier gasps and fumbles to roll over, hands clumsy as he reaches for Geralt’s cock and his face at once. The Witcher chuckles and grabs both his wrists, dragging them up to kiss each of his palms in turn.

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, and Jaskier groans.

“ _Wanna_ ,” he insists, yanking his hands back. Geralt lets him go, shifting his legs further open to give Jaskier room.

His cock is hard as steel and hot to the touch, twitching and pulsing in Jaskier’s grip. Jaskier’s mouth waters, but he barely has the presence of mind for a handjob, much less a blowjob. Later, he promises himself. For now, he just spits into his hand and strokes, hard and fast, until Geralt is panting and humping forward into his palm.

It doesn’t take long. Jaskier can feel the way Geralt’s muscles go tense just before it happens. He ducks down just enough to catch the first few spurts across his face, on his tongue, before he lays back and coaxes the Witcher through it. By the time he’s finished, Geralt is trembling, breath gone shallow and quick.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbles, finally. He surges forward to press his face into Jaskier’s neck, bringing their bodies flush together. A low pulse of arousal flashes through Jaskier’s gut, but he ignores it, too sleepy and sated to mind it for now.

“Good?” he asks, mostly just to be facetious. Geralt grunts and nips at the aching hickey he left on Jaskier’s throat earlier as answer.

* * *

When Jaskier wakes again, it’s clearly afternoon; the light has gone pale and weak once more, sun close to setting.

Geralt is still in bed with him, one arm under Jaskier’s head. But he’s awake.

“How long have you been up?” Jaskier asks it quietly.

Geralt shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t know,” he says, just as softly. “A bit.”

“What’re you thinking about?”

Geralt turns his head to look at Jaskier. There’s a small, indulgent smile on his lips that Jaskier wants to taste. “You,” he says, and that just seals it.

Jaskier leans up and catches the Witcher’s lips. It starts soft and chaste but quickly changes, Geralt’s tongue flicking against his palate making his blood rush in his ears. In the space between kisses, he asks, “What about me?” right against Geralt’s mouth.

There’s another series of deep, filthy kisses before Geralt answers. “I want you to fuck me,” he murmurs, and Jaskier’s sure his heart has forgotten several beats.

“ _Yes_ ,” he agrees, emphatic, and then they’re kissing again.

Jaskier sort of loses track for a bit, of everything; time, where his limbs are, where Geralt’s are. The most important thing in his world right now is Geralt’s mouth, the slightly too sharp edge of his teeth, his lips that are soft and surprisingly gentle. It isn’t until Geralt gives a frustrated grunt and leans away that Jaskier comes back to reality, just a bit.

Geralt is leaning half off the side of the bed, digging through on of Jaskier’s packs. “I know you have it,” he mutters, and Jaskier snorts, sitting up so he can lean over and grab the bag out from underneath Geralt’s searching palm.

“Yes,” he confirms, and finds it quickly himself. He keeps anything fragile in a padded, leather pocket with a tight closure. He added to the bag soon after he purchased it; it’s something he adds to every pack he has, much like the pocket he puts inside his doublets to carry his dagger. The vial of oil is easy to find, so differently shaped to the jars of salve and inkpots inside with it. He doesn’t quite toss the bag back to the ground, but it’s a near thing, and as soon as the oil has made it from his palm to Geralt’s they’re kissing again.

The angle is terrible, with Geralt laid almost perpendicular to him, on his belly, while Jaskier sits up, but it doesn’t deter them in the slightest. They kiss for long, breathless moments before Geralt finally decides to move. He doesn’t go terribly far.

With a grace it doesn’t look like he should possess – but definitely does, Jaskier knows from more experience than just right now – he gets to his knees and straddles Jaskier’s lap. Jaskier is forced back, dropping to lean on his elbows, as Geralt towers over him on his knees.

Jaskier spares a curious glance to his cock, but he’s more concerned with the intent look on Geralt’s face. For right now, that is. The vial of oil uncorks with a small pop, and then Geralt is coating his own fingers before fumbling the vial closed again and dropping it against Jaskier’s side. Once more, he hardly looks like a man that’s this flexible; even knowing better, it takes Jaskier’s breath away to watch the flex and slide of his muscles as he reaches back to open himself up.

“Fuck,” he mutters, shifting more weight to a single elbow so he can _touch._ Geralt makes a guttural sound that might have been a chuckle in another life and arches forward, toward Jaskier’s questing fingertips. “So _pretty_.”

If they were anywhere else – if this were any other time, Jaskier wouldn’t use that word. But here, safely ensconced in the castle Geralt can call home, in his – _their_ – bed, he lets all of the stupid, flowery things he always wants to say free.

“Gods, you look like something an artist dreamed up in a fever,” he murmurs, “too perfect to be real, even with the scars – fuck, the scars make it better, somehow. Absolutely _beautiful_ , you are, Geralt.”

Geralt huffs, a shaky, watery sound and the flexing of his arm speeds up. Jaskier shifts again, so he can sit up once more, bringing on arm to wrap around Geralt’s waist and the other to trail along the contracting muscle of his thigh. He presses wet, open mouthed kisses to the skin he can reach; Geralt’s pecs, dusted in the same white hair that crowns his head and the rest of him, his ribs, his collarbones.

“From first sight I knew, you know,” Jaskier continues. He’s not really putting much thought into his words, not now; everything is just spilling into his mind and then out of his mouth in quick succession. “Knew I wanted you, but more than just a quick roll in the hay – oh, though I would have immediately gone to my knees, had you asked – I wanted to _know_ you. You’re as stubborn as a rock troll, but I wormed my way through the cracks, didn’t I? And it was _worth it_ , Geralt, for every single sleepless night on the road and the insults and injuries – _you_ were worth it, _are_ worth it. All of you are, but you’re the first, _my_ White Wolf. So godsdamned exquisite, _fuck_.”

The whine that rips from Geralt’s lips is broken and sounds as if it was torn from him by force. Before Jaskier can even look up, to check in, to make sure the Witcher is okay, he’s being knocked back to the bed. Flat on his back, it takes a moment to orient himself, but when he does the first thing he sees is Geralt’s eyes.

Molten gold, darkened by lust and love and, gods, Jaskier thinks that may actually be desperation, for real. Geralt doesn’t speak, but his expression speaks volumes for him; he wants Jaskier something fierce. Jaskier isn’t about to deny him, not after everything.

He reaches forward and grasps at Geralt’s hips, yanking him forward before reaching to the side to dig out the vial of oil. It takes a moment for him to locate it, but Geralt passes the time leaving another hickey on his throat, a mirror of the one he left earlier. Jaskier grunts and forces himself to focus past the pain-tinged pleasure. He fumbles the vial open and spills probably too much of it into his palm, but he can hardly be fussed to give a damn right now. It gets closed – mostly, he hopes – and lobbed toward the bag on the floor.

It’s hard to keep his touch economical when he goes to coat his cock in the slick. He’d kind of forgotten about his own need, watching Geralt, but it slams back into him urgently at the press of his fingers.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, and grasps at the base of his prick hard enough to ache. “Come on, Geralt.”

The Witcher doesn’t need to be told twice. He leans back up with a parting nip to the sore skin on Jaskier’s throat and easily lines himself up. There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes when Jaskier catches his gaze, and he has just enough time to suck in a bracing breath before Geralt is pressing down. And down, and down, with no pause, until he’s seated fully and panting like the wolf engraved on his medallion.

Jaskier makes a wounded sound and moves his hands from Geralt’s hips to the sheets so he can savage something, just for a moment. Geralt makes a low, subverbal sound at that and snatches his hands back, pressing them back onto his hips with force. Even struggling through the haze of too much pleasure all at once, Jaskier grasps what he’s being told.

No need to worry abut hurting Geralt. He’ll still worry a bit, of course, but it’s nice to know that he doesn’t have to mind his grip or his nails.

Which is important to know a split second later when Geralt _moves_ , a sinuous little figure eight that sparks lightning up Jaskier’s spine. “Fuck!” His nails bite deep enough to leave reddish crescent marks in Geralt’s hips, little scratches that’ll be healed in a few hours’ time, but even so, seeing the marks makes something in Jaskier’s chest twist tight.

He doesn’t really put much thought into the movement. Geralt’s willing and pliable, impaled on his cock, so it’s easy to roll them, until he’s above. Geralt’s hair fans out around his head where it lands on the rumpled sheets, and he tips his head back, baring this throat. It’s an invitation if Jaskier’s ever seen one.

It’s no doubt impossible to leave a lasting hickey on a Witcher, especially Geralt, with his additional mutations, but impossibility has never stopped Jaskier before. Luckily, the movements of fucking are easy, ingrained, and he doesn’t have to think about them as he focuses on his attempt to suck a lasting bruise into the pulse point on Geralt’s throat.

Geralt’s arms come up to circle him, blunt nails scratching at his back wickedly, and Jaskier’s eyes roll. He leaves off the hickey for a moment, to lean up and adjust the angle, until Geralt is making cut off, high-pitched noises. The position is frankly hell on his back, especially after all of the sword training he’s been doing lately, but a little twinge is hardly about to stop him. Not when Geralt looks like _this._

The Witcher’s eyes are alternating between scrunched shut tight and fluttering as they roll; his mouth is dropped open, almost as if he’s forgotten about it, and the longer they go, the louder he gets. He’s sweating profusely, the little amount of redness his skin is able to show nearly glowing compared to the white of his hair and eyelashes.

“Fuck I love you,” Jaskier spits, suddenly, between pleasured grunts and whimpers. The words come back again, like a waterfall rush, pouring out of him without much input from his brain at all. “You’re gorgeous, letting me have you like this – tight and hot and perfect, letting me love you, letting me see you taken apart.”

Geralt makes an odd sort of gurgling noise, and from the way his whole body tenses, Jaskier can tell he’s close.

Jaskier leans down, so the next things he says are whispered in Geralt’s ear, hot and close. “Will you come for me, Geralt? All without a touch? Just my voice and my words and my cock – ” he punctuates that with a sharp thrust, and Geralt makes that same gurgling noise again “ – all enough to make you fall to pieces?”

“I want you to,” Jaskier continues. “I want to feel it, to see it – you’re so beautiful, Geralt, stunning and handsome and a dozen other worse I can’t be fucked to remember right now. Come on, Geralt, my White Wolf. _Come_.”

Jaskier can’t be sure if it’s the order or the pointed, deep thrusts that accompany it, but Geralt does exactly as he’s told. He tenses all over, hole clamping so tightly around Jaskier’s cock it hampers his movement, and then starts to tremble fiercely as his cock spills a veritable flood across his abs.

There’s not much hope of Jaskier lasting any longer. Not in the face of that. It takes two, maybe three more thrusts before he plummets over the edge, buried as close as he can get and crying out into Geralt’s slick chest.

They lie there for a long time, slowly coming down from the high together, the occasional aftershock rocking the both of them. It isn’t until Jaskier has gone completely soft and slipped out that he moves, but it’s only to flop to the side and then forcefully drag Geralt into his arms.

Geralt comes where he’s yanked, clearly sated and drained and perfectly willing to serve as Jaskier’s personal space heater and teddy bear. Jaskier buries a face in his hair, mindless of the tacky sweat drying there, and breathes deeply. Geralt has started to smell like him, since they arrived at Kaer Morhen. Of course, sharing a bed will do that, but it’s not any less thrilling just because Jaskier knows why it’s happened.

“I really do love you,” he mumbles against Geralt’s hairline.

The Witcher hums and nuzzles into his neck, licking lightly across one of the hickeys. It sends a wracking shiver through Jaskier’s spent body, and he whacks at Geralt’s back weakly in reprimand. Geralt just grins into his skin and does it again, but follows up with a soft, heartfelt, “I love you, too, Jaskier.”

Jaskier thinks that no matter what else happens in his life, he has the love of not just one, but _three_ Witchers, and that’s more than he could have ever asked for in that tavern in Posada.

He drops back off into sleep once more with Geralt’s arms tight around him, returning the embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is is much more deviant than he seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more filth lmao.
> 
> i'm still in the woods! just posting these and then i'll go back to the cabin where i don't have service.

Jaskier finds, over his stay at Kaer Morhen, that Geralt is absolutely deviant.

He’d had his hunches, before, but now – now he _knows._ And, oh, his hunches hadn’t even come close to the reality, not really.

Case in point:

He walks into the common area to find Eskel and Lambert playing cards – Lambert’s winning, based off the frown on Eskel’s face – and Geralt sprawled on the couch opposite, watching.

“Hello,” he greets, setting his lute down and going to sit with Geralt. “Where’s Vesemir?”

“Hunting,” Lambert answers.

“Just us,” Geralt continues, and when Jaskier looks at him, he’s got a wicked glint in his eye. One Jaskier has learned to recognize over the past few weeks.

“Oh?” Jaskier ask mildly.

Geralt reaches into his pocket and pulls out a vial of oil, holding it up for Jaskier – and the others, if they’re looking – to see. Jaskier raises a brow.

“You like an audience, don’t you, Jaskier?” Geralt says, and his voice is deep and rough as gravel. Jaskier’s cock jerks in his breeches.

He glances over to Lambert and Eskel, who are still playing cards but are now clearly paying attention to this exchange.

“I do,” Jaskier finally agrees, looking back to Geralt. “What are you suggesting, Witcher?”

Geralt leans forward, crowding into Jaskier space, and presses his lips right against Jaskier’s ear. The others will still be able to hear, but knowing that, and Geralt’s proximity, just makes Jaskier’s heartbeat pick up by several beats a minute. “I want you to sit on my cock,” he breathes, breath hot and damp as it curls around Jaskier’s ear. His tongue follows. “Let them watch you.”

Jaskier’s cock jerks again, half-hard and already starting to leak. “Oh, fuck,” he hisses. “ _Yes_.”

Geralt grins and starts pulling at his clothes. Jaskier helps, glancing to the side once he’s down to his underthings to see that while Lambert and Eskel aren’t looking properly, they’re sneaking peeks. He grins when he catches Lambert’s eye and shoves the rest of his clothing off at once. Geralt tosses all of it into a pile at the end of the couch, then sits up properly.

“D’you think you can still take me after this morning, or do you need my fingers?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier shudders from head to toe. He chews his lip in consideration for a moment, watching as Geralt takes his cock out of his pants.

“I can take it,” he says. In reality, he could probably use a little prep, but he wants the burn and stretch. After all, he is putting on a show, here, and nothing makes him quite as loud as that edge of pain when there’s a cock inside him.

Geralt smirks, as if he knows what Jaskier is thinking – probably does, Jaskier’s as transparent as glass when it comes to sex – and beckons him over.

“Come on, then,” he says, and pops the little vial open to slick his cock generously. Eskel has almost entirely abandoned the charade of the card game, spending more time staring at them than his hand. Lambert is still trying to be sneaky about it.

Jaskier stands and steps in front of Geralt, but Geralt shakes his head. “Turn around,” he says, and Jaskier shivers.

He turns to face Eskel and Lambert, and Geralt’s hands come up to his hips, guiding him backward and down into his lap slowly. He has to hold his weight awkwardly, with his knees bent, for just a moment while Geralt lines up, but then he’s able to sink down.

That little edge of stretch is there, the burning spreading up his spine, and he groans, something guttural and broken. Lambert’s chair creaks where he’s got a white-knuckle grip on it. Eskel drops his cards and the pretense, spinning around in his chair to watch. Jaskier smirks shakily at them, mouth dropping open involuntarily when his ass finally meets Geralt’s hips. With his knees still pressed together like they are, Geralt feels huge inside him.

“How long can you hold still?” Geralt asks, just as Jaskier squirms. He freezes with a caught noise.

“I – ” he swallows hard, “I don’t know.”

“Hm.” Geralt grasps his hips and shifts, just a little, and _gods_ , Jaskier has never been so full. Geralt’s legs shift to cage his, keeping his knees together, and his stomach swoops. “Well. Fuck yourself, then.”

The commanding tone in Geralt’s voice burns through Jaskier like wildfire, and he obeys even as part of him rages against it. With his legs together, caught with Geralt’s, he can’t do much more than shift back and forth, but that’s _plenty_ for him. Geralt seems to agree, going off the low moan he presses into Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier is going dizzy already, feeling Eskel and Lambert’s eyes on him, and the constant pressure on his prostate. “F-fuck,” he stammers. “So – so _full_.”

Geralt chuckles through a groan. “Good.”

Time and its meaning dissolve quickly. Jaskier rocks himself the best he can on Geralt’s cock, losing himself to the slow-build pleasure, to the scalding knowledge that Eskel and Lambert are watching. They’re both hard, too, he can see now. Eskel is touching himself, just rubbing over the bulge in his breeches, and Lambert’s given up all shame and shoved a hand into his trousers.

Geralt is groaning softly behind him, and his hands are everywhere. From Jaskier’s hips to his thighs, his abs and chest and throat, and back, never lingering too long in one place but instead just trailing arousal everywhere he touches.

Jaskier’s cock jerks almost violently when he slips just a little forward, the angle forcing Geralt’s cock just a little bit deeper, and he keens. “Fuck – fuck, gonna – ” he reaches toward his cock, but Geralt slaps his hands away.

“Just my cock,” he says, and Jaskier shudders so hard even Geralt’s legs shake a little. “Can you do that, Jaskier?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jaskier nearly sobs it, suddenly very overwhelmed, and he scrambles to grasp at Geralt’s hand. “Just, please – please,” he pleads, and presses Geralt’s palm against his throat.

Geralt doesn’t squeeze, not yet, but he does hold; it’s exactly what Jaskier needs, and the odd, almost-panic recedes. It’s replaced by searing pleasure as he rocks his hips faster, chasing the too-full pressure. He’s so close he can taste it.

All it takes is a single, sudden thrust from Geralt, and Jaskier topples over the edge. His cock jerks and spills, most of it landing on his belly and his own lap, but some of it goes to the floor, hitting Geralt’s boots. That sight, the pearly white on the scuffed black leather, makes another wave rock through Jaskier, and he whimpers desperately, scrambling for something to hold onto and finding Geralt’s arms.

“That’s it,” Geralt gentles him through it, rubbing at his throat. “Just like that, fuck, Jaskier, you’re incredible, you feel so fucking _good._ ”

Jaskier whines and collapses back against Geralt’s chest, spasming when the movement shifts Geralt’s still-hard cock inside of him. “ _Fuck_.”

“Can I keep going?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier whimpers but nods. He’ll be oversensitive and as useful as a ragdoll, but he wants Geralt to come inside him. Wants to watch Eskel and Lambert watch it happen. He shudders.

Geralt starts slowly, just shifting his hips the smallest amount up and down, until Jaskier has stopped trembling in his arms. Then he moves faster, and faster, using his strength to pull Jaskier a little up and drop him back down, and Jaskier finds he can’t control the noises pouring from his mouth. Little, hiccupping sobs, wanton moans, colorful swearing; all of it just tumbles out of him as Geralt uses his body for his own pleasure.

It’s not long before Jaskier is barreling too-quickly toward another orgasm. “Fuck, fuck! _Geralt_!” he shouts, and the Witcher just yanks him back onto his cock, hips grinding in deep, and he tumbles straight off the edge again. He has no awareness this time, hearing reduced to the sound of blood rushing in his ears and sight reduced to golden-hued white light. He can feel the way Geralt keeps going through this orgasm, and then the way Geralt’s cock flexes as he starts to come, and his cock throbs heavily, dry.

For a long moment, he’s not aware that the low, keening sound he’s hearing is coming from him. But then reality starts to filter in, and he can feel Geralt’s lips against his ear, the Witcher’s hands in his hair. He’s whispering sweet nothings, soft nonsense, and Jaskier lets it calm him, until finally he’s just panting softly and his heartrate is nearer to acceptable levels.

“Fuck,” he hears Lambert hiss, and looks over just in time to see him soil his breeches. The sight makes him jerk, pleasure too-sharp and too much. Eskel, apparently, has already spent, sometime while Jaskier was up in the clouds. He’s still staring at he and Geralt intensely, though.

“Good?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier laughs weakly.

“Fucking magnificent,” he mumbles, and when he shifts his hips, Geralt’s softened cock falls out of him. He frowns at the empty feeling, but doesn’t focus on it. “Gods. Put me on display more often, will you?”

Geralt makes a sort of choking sound behind him; Eskel mimics it, seemingly shocked as well, and Lambert just groans, exasperated and horny both.

Jaskier melts into Geralt’s arms and grins up at the ceiling.

Geralt is definitely a deviant, and much more than even Jaskier could have guessed. But he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to have a sort of narrative and tension like the lambert fic but then it just....didn't. soft boys just stayed in bed all day and refused to keep their hands or other parts to themselves.
> 
> give me ideas for the eskel porn fic!!! it's going to be unbearably soft and praise!kinky, i know that, but idk anything else.


End file.
